


Turning the Tables

by citrinesunset



Series: The Devil You Know [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Grooming, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal decides to "train" Peter to appreciate the finer things in life: manicures, nice clothes, good food....But Peter doesn't appreciate being trained by his slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning the Tables

**Author's Note:**

> This is a brief timestamp to _The Devil You Know_. It's not strictly necessary to have read that first--you just have to know that Neal has been sentenced to slavery and that Peter and Elizabeth have purchased him as a reluctant sex slave. This takes place a few months after the end of the first fic.

"You're pretty good at this," Peter said.

Neal kept his eyes on Peter's right hand, which he was holding as he gently worked the nail file.

"I used to like getting manicures sometimes," Neal said. The _used to_ part stung, but he didn't linger on the thought. "Good nails are a sign of a gentleman."

"I've never had any trouble taking care of them on my own."

"Your cuticles would beg to differ. Besides, having someone else do it is nice. You can't beat a good manicure."

Peter snorted, but then said, "You did a good job with El's nails."

Neal had given Elizabeth a manicure a few days ago. Hers had been more work because she'd wanted her nails polished. But Neal was good with his hands. He was used to doing minute, detailed work, and applying polish was a lot like painting.

Peter's nails mostly needed filing.

After a couple minutes of silence, Peter said, "What do you want?"

"Excuse me?"

"What are you hoping to get out of this? Some new clothes? A trip to a museum?"

Neal looked up from his work and raised an eyebrow. "What? I can't do something nice for you? I have to have an ulterior motive?"

"You usually do."

"Well, I don't. I just thought you'd appreciate some pampering...."

Peter sighed. "I do appreciate the effort. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Thank you."

The truth was, Neal _was_ doing this more for himself than for Peter, but not for the reasons Peter suspected.

Last week, a marshal who stopped by the FBI offices about a case decided to give Neal a "treat." It was a new booklet that was being given out to newly-sentenced slaves in an attempt to help them make the most of their sentences. It was called _A Sense of Purpose_.

It was blatant propaganda, and Neal didn't think many slaves were stupid enough to fall for it. The booklet claimed that people were more likely to turn to crime if they didn't feel that they contributed to society, and that slavery gave those people a way to contribute and feel like they had a purpose.

There were photographs of smiling slaves doing chores, with captions saying things like, "Joe does yard work without being asked so his master can sleep in on the weekend" and "Laura always looks for ways to make her owners' lives easier."

In a way, the booklet had a point. Right now, Neal's owners were his only source of approval and validation. But that was hardly worth finding a life purpose in.

What he _did_ take away from _A Sense of Purpose_ was that he needed something to focus on. He was almost a year into his sentence, and it was time to find something worthwhile to do with himself.

Sure, he helped Peter and Elizabeth at their respective jobs. And he enjoyed that. But he needed his own pursuit.

He had no interest in being the perfect slave. But he _could_ use his position to introduce Peter to some of the finer things in life. He could get some vicarious pleasure out of introducing Peter to all the luxuries he'd been deprived of.

Peter seemed to enjoy training him—why not turn the tables and train Peter for a change?

Neal finished with the file, and started to buff Peter's nails.

Craning his neck, Peter said, "Looks good."

"If you want them to stay nice, you need to stop chewing your nails."

Peter put on a mock scandalized face. "I don't chew my nails. And you don't need to tell me what to do."

Neal couldn't keep himself from smiling. "Whatever you say, _Master_."

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Neal was meant to accompany Peter to work. When his alarm went off in the morning, Neal lay in bed for a minute and listened. The shower was running downstairs, which meant Peter was up.

With a small smile, Neal sprang out of bed and, barefoot and in his pajamas, hurried down to the master bedroom.

He wasn't allowed in the Burkes' bedroom without permission, but he didn't expect them to complain. The door was already open, and Neal walked in.

Elizabeth was still in bed, curled up under the covers. Neal walked over the closet, and as he opened the doors, he heard Elizabeth's voice behind him.

"Neal? What are you doing?"

"I'm picking out something for Peter to wear."

She must have known that Peter would never ask Neal to do this, and that Neal was acting on his own accord. But she didn't argue.

Neal picked out a navy suit that Peter hadn't worn in a while and laid it on the bed. He looked through Peter's ties with a critical eye, searching for something that didn't look ten years old. Finally, in the back of the tie rack, he found something promising that he'd never seen Peter wear before.

"Hon, I think I'm going to stop on the way home from work today and pick up some more shaving cream and toothpaste. If you need anything, let me—what are _you_ doing?"

Neal turned to look at Peter, who'd just come in with a towel wrapped around his waist. Peter was glaring at him.

Elizabeth, who was now sitting up in bed, said, "Neal's helping pick out your clothes. I thought it was sweet."

"I don't need help picking out my clothes."

Neal could argue with that, but didn't.

"I already chose a suit and tie for you," he said.

Peter looked at the tie in Neal's hands. "I hate that tie. I never wear it."

"This is the only fashionable tie you own."

Peter started to argue, but Elizabeth cut him off. "Oh, humor him. He's just being helpful."

With a small grunt, Peter took the tie from Neal. Neal grinned.

"All right, all right," Peter said. He pointed in the direction of the hall. "Now go. Get ready."

Neal hurried out and went to the bathroom to shower and shave.

He was a little surprised when, a half hour later, he went downstairs and found Peter wearing the suit and tie he'd selected. Neal hid a satisfied smile as he joined Peter and Elizabeth at the table for breakfast.

Peter may have acquiesced to wearing Neal's selection, but he didn't seem too pleased about it. All afternoon, he fiddled with the tie.

"It's just a tie," Neal finally said. He was sitting across from Peter's desk, reading a file, and had looked up to see Peter tugging at his tie and looking at it as though it might be conspiring to strangle him.

"It looks ridiculous. This is the last time you're choosing my outfit."

"If I promise not to choose your clothes anymore, will you promise to do the same for me?"

Peter had a lot of nerve to complain when Neal had to tolerate the hand-me-downs and other cheap clothes Peter gave him.

Peter narrowed his eyes. "When you're willing to pay for all your own clothes, you can wear whatever you like."

Neal would have been more than willing to do that, if he had the money. As it was, his allowance and the money he got for helping at work only went so far. He got ten dollars a week in allowance these days, and a flat rate of five dollars a day for working. He knew that was generous, but it wasn't nearly enough for the standard of living he used to have.

"You could always give me a budget, you know."

Peter looked up. "A budget?"

"Yeah, tell me how much you're willing to spend on my clothes, and let me decide what to get."

With a small frown, Peter said, "Neal, you realize being a slave isn't about getting whatever you want, right? Not being able to make your own decisions is the whole point." He looked back at the forms he was signing, but then lifted his head and said, "We'll see."

That was better than nothing. Neal couldn't stop himself from smiling.

There was a knock on the open door. Neal looked over his shoulder and saw Jones standing in the doorway.

"Hey," Jones said to Peter, "I've got that report."

"Great," Peter said. "You can set it on the desk."

Jones did so. As he turned to leave, he paused and looked back at Peter.

"By the way, nice tie."

 

* * *

 

Peter was more receptive about receiving a massage.

"Why haven't I had you do this before?" he murmured. "You have good hands."

His voice was muffled by his arms, which were folded under his head, and by the pillow. He was on his stomach on the bed, and Neal was straddling his buttocks and massaging his bare shoulders.

"You're tense," Neal said. "I'm telling you, it's all those hours in the van."

"Mm. Good thing I have a slave then, huh?" Peter squirmed underneath Neal. "And you know, I can think of some other ways you can help me relax."

"This isn't that type of massage," Neal said, shortly.

Neal didn't often try to refuse Peter, and he wasn't going to let a request for sex interfere with his objective. He worked his hands down Peter's back, pressing and kneading.

If Peter was offended by Neal's response, he didn't show it. He seemed to be enjoying the massage.

Neal had learned that there was a certain amount of power in making Peter feel good. It put Peter off-guard, and made him less likely to fight.

After a few minutes, Peter said, "I still want to know what's gotten into you lately. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"I'm a slave. I thought it was my purpose to please you."

"You never cared about that before...."

Neal shushed him. "Relax. Just enjoy your massage."

Peter grew silent. After several minutes, Neal began to wonder if he'd dozed off.

Neal had fallen asleep during a massage once, while vacationing at a resort in the south of France.

He continued to run his hands up and down Peter's back, feeling the tension melt away.

 

* * *

 

"You know," Neal said, "it used to be common for wealthy men to have valets who'd help them get dressed."

Neal was buttoning Peter's cuff for him. It was morning, and Elizabeth had already gone downstairs to get breakfast. Peter hadn't been so quick this morning to shoo Neal out of the bedroom, so Neal had stuck around.

"That doesn't explain why you're up. You're not even supposed to come to work today."

That was partly while Neal was hanging around—he didn't need to get himself ready.

"It's still one of my housework days," he said. He got two real days off a week, and he wasn't doing anything for Peter on those days.

"Still," Peter said, "we've been letting you sleep in because we thought you appreciated the rest. But if you're up anyway, there's other stuff you can do. Like make us breakfast."

Damn. Maybe getting up early to dress Peter was a mistake. Neal decided to distract him from his new train of thought.

Neal lifted Peter's other wrist to do that cuff. "You should go shopping, and bring me with you. When's the last time you updated your wardrobe?"

"I don't need to update my wardrobe."

"C'mon, Peter—"

" _No_. You only want to go clothes shopping so you can live vicariously through me. Or maybe you're hoping I'll buy _you_ something. Don't push your luck—I talked to El, and we think we can go with your budget idea."

Neal smiled. "Really?"

"Don't get too excited. You just get to help choose what we get you."

Still, it was something.

"Now go see if El needs help downstairs."

Sensing that Peter's patience was wearing thin, Neal quickly obeyed.

 

* * *

 

Peter's taste in food was even more challenging to deal with than his clothes. Peter was remarkably stubborn, and was often skeptical of Neal's culinary efforts.

But on Saturday, Neal took it upon himself to cook Peter a nice lunch. Elizabeth was out, and it was just the two of them.

He called Peter, who was watching a game on TV, into the dining room. When Peter saw the plate on the table, he raised his eyebrows.

"What is that?"

"Lemon couscous with grilled zucchini."

"What makes you think I'd want that?"

Neal took a deep breath. "Trust me, you'll like it."

But Peter looked utterly unconvinced. "I thought I told you to grill me a hotdog. I'd remember if I mentioned zucchini. I thought lunch was taking a while...."

Neal tried to play it cool, but he was getting frustrated. "I thought you might appreciate something a little nicer than your usual fare."

Peter studied him. Realization dawned on his face, and was then replaced by irritation. "Is this what all your special treatment has been about lately? Do you think you're improving my tastes?"

There was no way to answer that without either lying or pissing Peter off, so Neal held his tongue.

"Okay," Peter said, "first of all, don't underestimate me. Just because my idea of a good time doesn't involve spending my hard-earned money on manicures and fancy ties doesn't mean I'm an uncultured idiot. And even if I was, I'm not going to be your Eliza Doolittle. Find a new hobby."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Do you want your lunch, or not?"

Peter looked down at the plate. "Why do we even have couscous?"

"Because Elizabeth got it for me. She knows I like it."

Neal walked out of the dining room and into the living room. He went over to the shelf to get a book, intending to take it up to his room. He had enough books in his room already, but he wanted to take a minute before going upstairs. He didn't want it to look like he was retreating.

Neal had, in his heart, always wanted to please people. He felt like his relationship with Peter could be represented by a Venn diagram. On one side was his "master," a generic individual whom he was supposed to devote himself to serving. On the other side was Peter Burke, the man who'd caught him and whom Neal had spent years eluding and teasing. In the middle, forming an overlap, was Peter as his master.

It was the overlap that created conflict. Did he want to scorn Peter, or impress him? What if he was falling into the trap that _A Sense of Purpose_ was designed to create? What if he was just falling into the role of a slave?

No, it wasn't like that. He'd seen in this experiment a way to get back some of the comforts he'd enjoyed, even if vicariously. He'd seen a chance to make Peter appreciate them.

And yes, that meant playing the good slave. But Neal had been proud of himself, finding a way to make his role more palatable. Couldn't Peter allow him that much?

He didn't look when he heard Peter's footsteps coming closer.

"I never asked you to give me your food," Peter said. He sounded like he was trying to be firm, but his tone sounded defensive and sheepish instead.

Neal shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I didn't give you all of it." He turned to face Peter. "My whole life is supposed to be about serving you right now. You keep telling me I need to have a good attitude about it. I was just trying to take pride in my work."

Peter looked skeptical, which Neal found he preferred to seeing pity.

"You were making me into a project."

"All right. Maybe a little."

Peter sighed. "Look, I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'm glad you're trying to find ways to help out, and I know there are guys out there who'd appreciate this stuff better than I do. But I've tried to give you stimulating things to do. Is messing with my diet and wardrobe really more interesting than working cases?"

"No, it's not like that. I just it would be nice. That's all."

Peter had a point—his work at the FBI, and at Elizabeth's business, was satisfying. He would try not to take it personally that this project of his failed. He would find another to occupy his time.

"All right," Peter said, "I'll try the couscous. And the massage and the manicure were nice. You can keep doing that. But no more messing with my clothes, okay? I can pick out my own wardrobe."

Neal smiled. "I can accept that."

 

* * *

 

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into buying this."

"Well, I couldn't buy it myself," Neal said. Peter raised his eyebrows, and Neal explained. "Straight razors can be used as weapons. Slaves aren't allowed to buy them."

Peter was holding the razor in his hand, eying it cautiously. "And you're sure you know how to use it?"

"Don't worry; I have steady hands." He gestured toward the dining room chair that he'd pulled out. "Have a seat."

Peter set the razor on the table and sat down. Neal put a pillow under Peter's head, allowing him to rest his head back. He placed a towel over Peter's chest.

Neal started to get the lather ready. He put some shaving cream in a cup and wet the fluffy brush he'd made Peter buy with warm water. He whipped the shaving cream with the brush until it was warm and soft. Then he began brushing it on Peter's face and neck.

"Feels good," Neal said, "doesn't it? Nothing like a hot lather."

Peter murmured in agreement.

When Peter's lower face and neck were covered, Neal wiped off his hands and picked up the razor.

He hadn't used a razor like this in quite a while, but he didn't dare tell Peter that. Nevertheless, he was confident handling it. Peter closed his eyes, and Neal worked in silence.

Neal wondered how many masters trusted their slaves to wield sharp objects near their necks (and how many trusted out of naiveté).

He knew Peter's faith was sincere, and it meant more to Neal than it probably should have.

When he was finished, Neal wiped the residual shaving cream from Peter's face and slapped aftershave onto his skin.

"All done."

Peter opened his eyes and lifted his head. He rubbed his chin.

"Wow, it's smooth."

"See, I told you a straight razor gives the best shave. A disposable Bic can't compare. Or even your electric razor."

"It's good. But I think I'll stick to my regular method."

Neal's shoulders slumped. "Seriously? You're telling me that wasn't the best shave you've ever had?"

"It's a nice shave. A lot of fuss, though, and I like to shave in the morning."

Peter was hopeless. Did he have no idea how many masters would line up for a slave they could trust to give them a good shave? Or how good of a resource Neal could be?

Peter chuckled. "Tell you what—maybe I'll let you do this again sometime, as a treat."

Neal didn't ask whether the treat was supposed to be for Peter or for him. If it was the latter, Neal really needed to reconsider some things. Finding purpose was one thing; having service be its own reward was quite another.

Neal took the razor to the sink to clean it.

"By the way," Peter said as Neal walked away, "thanks. It does feel good."

"Don't mention it."

Who knew? Maybe he would win Peter over, yet.


End file.
